


The Earth and The Moon

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Brotherly Angst, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Chinese New Year, Estrangement, Gen, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Siblings, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 14:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: It's been years since Kiku left the Wang family home.He doesn't want to look back. He doesn't want to go back, no matter what Yao says. And yet –





	The Earth and The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an AU by Symphony Lane: https://aminoapps.com/c/hetalian-jet/page/item/1000-paper-cranes/mPkD_MwS0IRM1qJxrM5k1lEVKvXnXwbXb1
> 
> All the workings of the AU belong to her. 
> 
> Human names:
> 
> China = Yao, Japan = Kiku, Germany = Ludwig, Hong Kong = Jialong, Taiwan = Xiaomei.
> 
> "Nii-sama" is a polite way to address an older brother in Japanese.

If the earth should collapse one day, the moon would gaze on in silence.

“That’s what I’ve always thought,” Yao used to say. He’d recline against a dark green wall in their dark green balcony and raise an arm, his fingers splayed as though he were trying to balance the moon on his palm. “It won’t look away – no matter what happens, the moon will always be there.” The moonlight was cool on their faces; the night sighed, and wisps of winds tugged at their hair and kissed their cheeks. “Do you see the rabbit, Kiku?” Yao would turn then, his eyes bright, his smile gentle. “It’s pounding medicine on the moon.”

Even back then, Kiku hadn’t agreed with his elder brother. “They’re making _mochi_ ,” he’d said quietly. “Not medicine.”

Yao had always laughed softly. Then he’d turned to gaze up again – “But it’ll always be there, watching over us, high in the sky.” A wistful expression had lingered on Yao’s slim face, wavered there, and carefully folded back into the depths of his mind. “Just like how I’ll always be there for you, little brother.”

The kindness on Yao’s face concealed a thousand words that had been left unsaid.

If the moon never faded from the sky, Yao would never let Kiku escape from his careful watch.

“We’ll always be a family, Kiku,” Yao had said – those words, so simple in their meaning, seemed to contain hundreds of hidden implications, thousands of words and actions and expectations –

And Kiku hated it.

\---

His phone buzzed loudly in the middle of a meeting.

Kiku frowned. Perhaps he’d forgotten to mute its volume. He’d have to ignore it for now, since there was an important presentation going on and –

His phone buzzed again. Then again. A few seconds later, it buzzed once more.

The presenter, Ludwig Beilschmidt, looked at him sharply and said, “Perhaps you’d like to take care of that, Mr Honda.”

Heat flooded into Kiku’s cheeks. When he fumbled for his phone and the screen burst to life he checked the notifications –

But it was only Yao, yet again, rambling about the Lunar New Year. “So, I’m thinking of… Make sure you come back… We need to plan early… Why aren’t you respon…”

Nothing important; there was no harm in setting his phone to silent mode.

Kiku slipped it back into his pocket.

\---

He hadn’t been born into the Wang family.

Kiku was an orphan, born to a poor Japanese couple, abandoned at birth. His surname bore the only hint to his identity, the only lingering trace of the world he’d been born into – but there were so many Hondas in existence and searching for his parents was like seeking a single bamboo tree in a glittering grove.

He’d spent his early childhood in a Japanese family, before several distressing events that he didn’t remember well occurred and the Wang family adopted him at nine years old. He became their second child, their second son – after him they’d have Wang Jialong, and Wang Xiaomei. Yet the Wangs were always drifting around the western world, attending business conferences, earning the money that Yao received every month to pay for his siblings’ education – and they were never home.

Sometimes Kiku wondered why they’d taken him in. As the seasons shifted and the years flashed by, he slowly realised that he’d never find out. The memory of their faces was fading quickly; photographs of them hung quietly around the house, endlessly dusted by their filial eldest – but already they seemed to be receding into the walls, silently, without a whisper or a sigh. They had to have been around more often in the past, for they couldn’t have adopted him otherwise, but they were gone now. And Kiku doubted that they were ever coming back.

Every month, Yao would receive decrees from them. When he was told that the youngest children were to join their parents in England, he’d cried and begged – he’d shouted over the phone, tears running down his face, as Kiku watched from a corner.

But there was nothing that anyone could do. Just like that, two children were snatched from Yao’s trembling arms.

Then Yao and Kiku had been alone, sitting stiffly in an empty house, listening to the echoes of childish laughter that had been silenced forever. They were all Asian, and the family was supposed to be the building block of most Asian societies – but theirs was fractured, broken apart, scattered across the world. The more they dissolved, the more Yao struggled to keep them together, to gather the shattered pieces in his embrace, to make everything whole again. He’d only just turned eighteen when the children had left, but even before that he’d become an adult in every sense of the world.

Kiku loved his elder brother. Yao was kind, and strong, and he was a better cook than anyone whom Kiku had ever met. He had the most skilful hands – he could paint, embroider, play the _guzheng_ and the _pipa_ – his eyes were gentle and his hugs were warm and he’d always been there for Kiku.

It hurt to see Yao cry.

\---

His phone buzzed.

This time it didn’t stop – it droned on, shifting slightly on the dining table, and Kiku realised that someone was calling him.

It was Yao. “Why didn’t you respond to my texts?” he said immediately, his voice sharp with irritation.

“I was in a meeting.”

“It’s been two hours since then!”

“I was working.” It was a struggle for Kiku to bite back a sigh of exasperation. Yao had always been like that – petty, demanding, nagging – qualities that were annoying in anyone, but infuriating when they surfaced so often in someone whom he couldn’t ignore forever.

Yao paused for a brief moment. Then he barrelled rapidly on – “Well, you’re off work now, right? Let’s discuss. We’ll meet on February the fourth to have our New Year’s Eve reunion dinner with our extended family, and you’ll meet me at my house early the next day and we’ll go visiting – I think our Aunt Chun expects us, and she’s just had a little girl, you know – then there’s Uncle Xia, and his wife Aunt Qiu, with our cousin Miss Dong. We’ll probably all go to watch a lion dance after that. Right – and remember to clean your house and buy new clothes before the New Year, since you forgot last year.”

“It’s only December.” Christmas hadn’t even passed yet – every shopping mall was still blaring _“Jingle Bells”_ and _“I Wish You a Merry Christmas”_ with traditional enthusiasm. Besides, Kiku wasn’t Chinese. For his family’s sake he’d gone along with Chinese traditions for much of his life, but he observed Japanese festivals and celebrated the Japanese New Year alone. It was a part of him that Yao barely acknowledged, that Yao never understood.

He could almost see the frown on Yao’s face. “There’s nothing wrong with preparing early,” said Yao.

“I suppose.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t seem very happy about this.” Now there was an edge to Yao’s voice, a flash of anger that Kiku hadn’t heard for a long time. “I know – I know that Mother and Father aren’t here, and that Jialong and Xiaomei are still in England, but you’re in the country and _you_ have to come back.”

The moon was bright in the sky. It pierced the dark clouds, bathed a patch of Kiku’s floor in wet moonlight – there was no escaping from it, no hiding from the eye that never blinked.

It wasn’t a new moon, after all.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s a little…”

“What is it?” demanded Yao.

Though Kiku didn’t often speak his mind, he saw no other option. “We barely know these people,” he said. “They appear for the Lunar New Year, but where were they when our parents disappeared?”

“They’re our _family_ ,” insisted Yao. “We can’t just not visit them. It wouldn’t be right, it would be breaking tradition.”

Tradition, tradition – everything was about tradition with Yao. And when he brought up tradition, it was inevitably Chinese tradition.

“I wasn’t insinuating that we shouldn’t visit them. I was just thinking…” Yet Kiku didn’t quite know what he wanted to say. “…Perhaps I could bring some _mochi_ this year for dessert,” he said. “Or perhaps we could celebrate the New Year – January the First – together.” It wasn't something that he’d normally ask, for surely Yao wasn’t interested in celebrating the Japanese New Year with him.

There was a long silence. Then –

“Don’t bring Japanese food,” said Yao quietly. “You know that some people still bear grudges, and I don’t think they’d like that.”

Kiku’s heart sank. It was true – mochi would not be appropriate for Chinese New Year celebrations. And it wouldn’t do to commit a social faux pas like that, even if the reasoning behind it didn’t sit well with him, for the sake of their family’s name. It held only an intellectual significance for Kiku, but it was important nonetheless. Perhaps he could share Japanese food with his brother on another occasion.

“But I’ll visit you in January,” said Yao, “and you can tell me about your Japanese traditions. Wasn’t there something about folding paper cranes?”

“If you fold a thousand, you can make a wish and it will come true,” said Kiku, “though it has nothing to do with the New Year.” While he’d been the one making the offer, he hadn’t expected Yao to actually take him up on it. There was a certain peace, a certain tranquillity to celebrating the New Year alone – with Yao there would be noise, and a fuss, and a relentless energy that Kiku didn’t know if he could tolerate.

Then Yao chuckled. It was a calming sound, a familiar one – suddenly Kiku remembered his brother’s smiling face, remembered how Yao had essentially raised him without help.

A warm feeling filled his chest.

“Well, I’ll be there, little brother.”

And just like that, plans were made, plans were destroyed, and their words faded into silence.

\---

Once, many years ago, Kiku had tried to fold a thousand paper cranes.

It happened days after Jialong and Xiaomei had left for England. Yao had withered without them – sometimes he’d walk into their room and linger there for minutes, hours, opening drawers and wiping tables and burying his crying face in their unused blankets. All Kiku could do had been to draw his elder brother into an embrace, but they were seven years apart and Kiku’s arms had barely been long enough to wrap around his brother’s slight waist.

Kiku had to do something. One day he’d dragged a pile of old newspapers into his room and removed the individual pages before tearing them into squares. Each square had then been delicately but swiftly folded into a paper crane, and placed in a pile to his left – the next day he’d realised that he should use better paper, and so Kiku had purchased a stack of brightly-coloured origami paper for his task.

Once he’d folded forty, he’d used a piece of string to tie them all together, making one long chain which he’d hung on a clothes hanger. But when he’d folded fifty –

“Do you want to continue?”

There had been a voice in his head. Kiku’s hands had stilled. He’d glanced around wide-eyed, but he was alone, there was no one, and this voice wasn’t that of anyone he'd known –

“Do you want to continue?”

His wish would have been for Jialong and Xiaomei to return home. Then Yao would smile again, and they would be a family again, and everything would be as it should once more. The house would be filled with laughter; Yao would play the _pipa_ as the children danced around the low square table in the living room to the rhythm of the tinkling wind chimes; they’d stay together forever, and –

But Kiku had been frightened.

“Do you want to – ”

“No!”

The voice faded.

And Kiku hadn’t folded a single paper crane since.

\---

Kiku tried to avoid Yao.

His elder brother attempted to meet him far too often. “We're having a discount today,” he’d text, “So if you want to eat my amazing Peking duck, you should drop by!”

“Sorry, I’m busy with work,” Kiku would reply.

A week before Christmas, he ran into Yao at a stationery shop. To his surprise, his elder brother seemed to be loading several stacks of origami paper into his basket – despite himself, Kiku felt compelled to approach him.

“Good evening,” he said.

Yao jumped in surprise, launching himself backwards into a shelf of ballpoint pens and scattering some of them on the floor. Kiku frowned at that – Yao had never been so jumpy or clumsy – but when he bent to pick them up, Yao quickly said, “It’s fine, I’ll do it” and scrambled for them himself.

Something was up.

“You’re doing origami?” asked Kiku, once the pens were replaced and Yao had brushed himself off. It wasn’t something that he’d seen Yao attempt before – though his brother often tied elaborate Chinese knots and cut Chinese characters on red paper, origami was generally associated with Japanese culture instead.

A sheepish laugh escaped Yao’s lips. “I’ve been trying it,” he said. “It’s…a lot of fun.”

Yet he wasn’t quite meeting Kiku’s eyes, and his long slender fingers seemed to be trembling. When Kiku looked down to look at them, he squinted in confusion – were those cuts?

“You should be more careful,” he said. It was almost surreal to hear himself lecturing Yao instead of the other way around. “But with your level of skill at handicrafts, I’m sure that whatever you fold will be beautiful.”

It was a simple fact, but Yao immediately brightened at the compliment. “Thank you!” he said, a smile softening his slim face.

But before Kiku could say anything else, Yao had turned to walk to the cashier. “I have something to do at home,” he called, “so I must be going. See you!”

He queued, paid, and left.

Kiku didn’t quite know what to think. In the past Yao had always had too many things to share – he spoke rapidly, jumping from one topic to the next, asking Kiku’s opinion in one moment and completely disregarding it seconds later. In the end he’d always worn Kiku’s patience to nothing and had still refused to leave for he had so much more to say.

This was different.

As Kiku walked home, pondering the unusual interaction, the night fell over him like a dark cloak. When he gazed at the sky the moon was shining brightly, like a pearl floating alone in a vast black sea. Chinese dragons often chased pearls, their bodies twisting and coiling and rippling across porcelain or silk threads. But why did they chase pearls? What did they see in them? What was so special about the pearl that such mighty creatures as dragons yearned to possess them? Why was the rabbit on the moon? Was it pounding medicine, or _mochi_?

The moon didn't answer.

And suddenly Kiku wished it wasn’t so distant, after all.

\---

Kiku had become Yao’s only remaining sibling.

Both of them grew painfully aware of that. Initially the thought hadn’t occurred to Kiku – but then he noticed how Yao was watching him like a hawk, eyeing his every movement, catching the slightest failure.

“Finish your food,” he’d say whenever Kiku left some rice in his bowl; “You’re getting skinny” or “You’re getting fat” whenever Kiku’s weight had shifted more than usual; “You’re not trying enough” whenever Kiku had dared to score a B. Then he’d rush into a speech, emphasising the importance of appreciating what one was given or maintaining a healthy diet or striving for the best. “You should do this,” he’d say, “For your own good. Come on, I know what’s best for you. I know what you’ll like and what you won’t. Do as I say – you’ll see that I was right, all along.”

Yet Yao was so conflict-averse that any protests from Kiku were simply waved off and not acknowledged. Weeks later he’d bring up the contentious topic once more and drop it again whenever Kiku glared at him in response; eventually, inevitably, Yao got his way in the end.

Kiku would come to understand, years later. For someone who might not have had stellar parental figures in their life, taking on the mantle of a parent couldn’t have been easy. It was unlikely that Yao actually knew what he was doing, after all, since he’d grown up too fast himself.

But Kiku hated it. The constant nagging bore at his skull. The criticism slapped him in the face. Yao never raised his voice, but he seemed to be shouting nonetheless, failing to understand, failing to empathise. Sometimes it was as if he were treating Kiku like a child, swaddling him in blankets and praising him patronisingly – and sometimes it’d be like he were abandoning Kiku to the streets, believing him to already know what was expected of him.

That was why Kiku had finally become the last person to leave the Wang family home.

For the first time in Kiku’s life, he’d made his older brother cry. “Why are you doing this to me?” Yao had yelled – “Why, when you know how much I love you?”

But Kiku slammed the door and hadn't looked back.

He hadn't opened it, even when Yao had banged at it, even when he'd heard Yao’s shuddering sobs or the cry of the telephone. They didn’t speak for almost an entire year; then something had seemed to deflate in Yao, some stubborn pride disappearing from his chest, and he'd stopped asking Kiku to come home.

Then, and only then, had they reconciled.

Yet Kiku knew that he’d never be forgiven.

\---

Framed in Kiku’s doorway, Yao seemed impossibly small.

Neither of them had ever been particularly tall, but Yao seemed slighter than ever. Something seemed to have changed about him – there was a tired slant to his face, a dullness in those ever-bright eyes.

Kiku invited him in. Even the chairs in the dining room seemed to dwarf Yao now – when he sank into one, it engulfed his body effortlessly.

“I made you something,” he said quietly, and slowly unfurled the scroll that he’d brought with him. It was an ink painting, where harsh black strokes were surrounded by rounded, pale pink dots – it seemed that Yao had painted a branch of _sakura_.

Yet something wasn’t quite right. When Kiku looked at it more closely, several overlarge ink blotches and uneven strokes screamed for his attention. But this particular piece was lacking in yet another way – it seemed to quiver, to gasp in a long, low death rattle. Yao’s paintings had always sprung to life before Kiku’s eyes – this one had died before the ink had even dried on the paper.

“Thank you,” said Kiku regardless, for it was a present, after all.

It was only when he looked over to meet Yao’s eyes that he noticed the bandages on his brother’s fingers.

His eyes widened. “What happened?” he asked, moving closer. “How were you injured?”

But Yao only laughed softly, his gaze darting around the room. “It was an accident with some hot cooking oil,” he said gently, “Nothing to worry about.”

It was something that Yao had been doing for years – brushing off Kiku’s words, acting as though they didn’t matter. “You painted this while injured?” said Kiku, his voice strained. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Yao smiled silently. It was a calm smile; a knowing one, that took the whole world in and gazed back with quiet acceptance. “You said you made soba,” he said, smoothly changing the topic. “Let’s eat.”

They ate, and admired the huge full moon, and settled down to wait for January the First together. Sometimes Yao’s fingers seemed to twitch, as though they were itching for something that they couldn’t quite reach – they were beautiful fingers, Kiku remembered, long and slender, calloused in places from plucking stringed instruments or holding a brush, but incredibly fine all the same.

“I hope your fingers recover soon,” said Kiku. They had always been Yao’s greatest assets – he painted with them, cooked with them, played instruments with them, made elaborate paper cuttings with them, embroidered with them, looped Chinese knots with them.

Yao tilted his head. “Thank you,” he said.

And they greeted the New Year together for the first time in years.

\---

A few weeks later Kiku’s phone buzzed in the middle of the night.

He stumbled out of bed, tripping over his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he pressed the button his phone lit up before his eyes – Yao was the person calling him.

Kiku’s heart leapt into his mouth.

Perhaps something had happened to his brother.

He answered the call and slammed the phone against his ear. “Yao?” he said quickly, “Is everything alright?”

Silence.

Then Kiku heard heavy breathing, and a drawn-out gasp – “Come home,” sobbed Yao, “Please, Kiku, please come home.”

His heart hardened. There was nothing to do but cast aside the guilt that caked his body – to shed it, to let it slip away like rain on a stone statue. “Are you ill?” he asked, just to be certain.

There was an audible hesitation on the other end of the line. “…No.”

“Then I’m sorry,” said Kiku. “I’m not going back.”

He waited a little longer, wondering if perhaps Yao really was in physical pain but was simply too proud to admit it – but he heard nothing but pleas and sobs, strings of broken sentences that trailed off to choked silence –

So he apologised once more, and hung up. When he looked out of the window for one moment he saw that the moon wasn’t in the sky – it had vanished, had been hidden from view, concealed behind a mass of dark clouds.

It was already too late for regret.

\---

Yao didn’t call him again.

This was highly unusual. Yao had made it a habit to contact Kiku more often than was necessary; additionally, the Lunar New Year was two weeks away.

His sudden disappearance didn’t make sense.

So, despite everything that had happened, Kiku found himself ringing the doorbell of the house that he’d refused to return to.

“Yao?” he called.

But no one answered.

Yes, Kiku remembered – Yao had let go of the maids the year before, saying that since he was the only one at home he didn’t need much extra help. “Yao?” shouted Kiku again. This time he knocked on the door, waited for a response that didn’t come, and started banging on it instead –

Still, no one came.

It was with a deep, sighing reluctance that Kiku drew the house key from his coat pocket. He’d tried to mail it back to Yao years ago, when he’d first left – but his brother had always sent it back, perhaps out of a wild hope that Kiku might one day decide to return.

Now it was being used for that purpose for the first time.

He stepped into the house, and locked the door behind him. As Kiku tugged his shoes off to leave at the entrance, he looked around wide-eyed at the place where he’d grown up. Now everything seemed to be coated in a fine layer of dust – the dark red furniture in the distance, the cream-white walls, and the wooden floor – all of it. Everything seemed slightly greyed now, washed out, as if little attention had been paid to it for some time.

“Yao?” he shouted into the musty silence.

There was a noise, and a pause. Then someone called Kiku’s name in a weak voice that was barely recognisable.

His heart racing, Kiku hurried towards the sound. It’d been years since he’d stepped foot into the deeper parts of the house, but he knew it all the same, from the depths of his memories – Yao had loved to paint in that room, and he’d kept his instruments in that other one –

And, at long last, Kiku opened the door to Yao’s bedroom.

A lone figure stood there, swaying in silence. A thin nightshirt and pants hung from its starved frame, and Kiku froze once he realised that he could see the sharp jut of his brother’s shoulders but little else.

Yao collapsed to the floor. “You – came,” he said in a wobbly whisper, “You – came home.” Tears streamed down his face. “You – you – ”

Kiku flew to his side. “I’m home,” he said, “I’m home now, and I’m going to help you.” The words tumbled from his mouth – for now, that was what he had to say, and everything else didn’t matter. Kiku leaned Yao’s head on his shoulder, and raised a hand to stroke the long, loose black hair and the angular back. A sour smell clung to Yao’s body, as though he hadn’t showered the day before – something was wrong, something was terribly wrong.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Yao tried to laugh – but the sound that escaped his thin lips scarcely resembled anything at all. “Over a day ago.”

Ice churned in the pit of Kiku’s stomach. “I see,” he said, struggling to cling on to his last scrap of calm. “Wait here. I’ll cook – ”

“Kiku,” whispered Yao, “I can’t move my hands.”

And then Kiku was ripping the bandages away and desperately massaging those long, beautiful fingers, even as the gashes oozed with blood and stained the floor below. “Better?” he said hastily – “Do you feel anything now?”

But Yao only shook his head. The saddest smile in the world twisted the corners of his lips.

“This is the price that I’ll have to pay,” he said, softly.

Now Kiku regretted taking the bandages off – it’d been his first instinct, and it’d been a stupid one, for now Yao was bleeding everywhere and he had to find something to cover the wounds once more. “What do you mean?” he demanded, even as he sprang to his feet to begin a hurried search. “What price? What have you done?”

“I tried to fold a thousand paper cranes.”

Kiku’s legs turned to stone.

“I wanted to make them for you, at first,” said Yao, his voice shaking, “As a gift, since I heard it was traditional in your culture.” He coughed weakly. “But when I remembered that folding a thousand could grant a wish, I wondered if perhaps I could bring you back home. By folding a thousand paper cranes.”

“But even so, that doesn’t – ” But before Kiku could finish speaking, an old memory rose, like a whisper, in his ears once more.

“Do you want to continue?”

Kiku had backed down, but if Yao had continued, if Yao had plunged into the abyss –

“When I reached fifty, I heard a voice asking if I wanted to continue. I did. I made a hundred, and then two hundred – then the paper started to cut into my hands, and the voice kept coming back, screaming at me, telling me to fold, fold, fold.” Yao took a trembling breath. “I continued. I had to continue, because if I failed I knew that something terrible would happen. That there would be a price to pay.”

Kiku sank to the floor. “You – ”

“I had a vision where I saw you leaving me – _forever_.” Yao choked on the last word, as though he couldn’t bear to say it. “So I called you that night. You rejected me. And then I realised – if I went through with it, if I folded a thousand paper cranes and forced you back to my side, it wouldn’t be what you wanted. It wouldn't make you – happy.”

Tears burned in Kiku’s eyes.

“I hung on for a few days, folded a few more cranes – then I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to do this to you. I gave up. And then – ” Yao raised his hands to his face. They hung limply from his wrists, cold, dripping with blood, but already dead – “This happened. I lost all the feeling in my hands. I couldn’t move my hands anymore.”

Kiku crawled forward, one inch, two inches – then he clasped Yao’s hands in his own, the hands that had wiped the tears from his face, that had held his own tiny hand in crowded places, that had helped him up when he fell down. “You – “ he sobbed, “You – ”

They bent their heads, and cried together.

\---

It was already too late.

Kiku brought Yao to doctors and specialists and even traditional Chinese physicians but there was nothing that they could do. There was nothing that could be done.

Yao would never be able to use his hands ever again.

Their only hope for the future was for Yao to eventually learn to use his feet to replace the functions of his hands – but for now, Kiku had been left to care for his brother. He’d done so personally at first, washing Yao and feeding him and dressing him – but Yao’s deep humiliation quickly became clear, and they’d hired a specialised maid instead.

It was for the best. Kiku had every intention of keeping his job, which wasn’t possible if he had to become a full-time caretaker. Yet he moved back into the Wang family home, just so that he could be closer to his brother – it was only supposed to be a temporary solution, but when he was asked to pay rent on his old apartment Kiku gathered his belongings, negotiated his exit, and quietly finished the move.

Being with Yao all the time was trying. Not a single one of his irritating habits had faded with his ability to use his hands – instead he had grown more temperamental, his anger rising as he struggled to cope with his new disability. Initially, Kiku just let Yao lecture and casually criticise him, since he was used to it even if it was frustrating – a few days of this later, Kiku snapped and told Yao exactly what he thought of this behaviour.

And for the first time in his life, Yao took Kiku’s words to heart.

\---

They ate together on New Year’s Eve.

Kiku brought out _mochi_ for dessert, for he’d always wondered what Yao would think of it. His brother turned out to like it very much.

“I can probably make it for you; I’ll look up the recipe later,” said Yao cheerfully – then he remembered that he couldn’t cook anymore, and the smile on his face faltered.

After dinner, they walked to the dark green balcony and sat down to admire the moon. It was a tiny sliver of a moon, barely even a crescent – yet there was something dainty about it, something delicate, like the curve of Yao’s white hand. The first day of Chinese New Year always began on the new moon – it wouldn’t be there after the Eve, then, for it’d be hiding its pearly face in the dark sky.

“If the earth should collapse one day, the moon would gaze on in silence.” Yao’s soft voice floated in the cool wind. “That’s what I’ve always thought. It won’t look away – no matter what happens, the moon will always be there.”

Kiku pressed his hand into Yao’s own. His brother couldn’t feel the warm touch, but it didn’t matter – Kiku ran his thumb over the scabbing scars, traced the length of those slender, unmoving fingers, and closed his hand over the familiar palm.

There was no rabbit on the moon that night, since the moon was barely visible. It didn’t matter now, whether it was pounding medicine or _mochi_. It could be pounding both; it could be pounding nothing at all. The crescent moon was a far cry from a pearl; the Chinese dragons would be somewhere else, far away, roaming distant lands. Perhaps Kiku should ask Yao why dragons chased pearls – but that was a question for another day, when the moon was full again and the dragons returned.

“If the moon should collapse one day, the earth would gaze on in silence,” said Kiku.

Yao turned to look at him. The wind played with his long hair, scattering its dark strands in the breeze; the leaves of trees rustled in the distance, whispering to each other.

“It won’t look away – no matter what happens, the earth will always be there.”

A small smile curved Yao’s slim lips. “I see.”

“Just like how I’ll always be there for you, big brother.”

Tears swam in Yao’s eyes. Kiku reached out, encircled Yao’s small waist with one arm, and pulled them closer together.

“We’ll always be a family, Kiku,” said Yao gently. Those words, so simple in their meaning, seemed to contain hundreds of hidden implications, thousands of words and actions and expectations –

But Kiku accepted all of it.

“You’ll always be my family, _Nii-sama_.”


End file.
